I have recently become obsessed
with the idea of living as locally as possible, especially when it comes to
food. We get the majority of our vegetables from a local organic company,
although their focus is organic first, then local, which means the winters get
pretty global). I try to get local eggs and buy organic dairy, as if this is
somehow more local than non-organic. We get a lot of our meat from the market.
And I have visions of making a whole host of things from scratch, from
condiments to breads and pastas. It’s kind of a joke though. I think I miss the
mark more often than not and I’m not sure if anything I’m doing is making a
difference in either the quality of the food we eat or to the local economy.
Naturally, when failing at doing something small, my mind rolls towards doing
something big. In this case, that’s ditching the city, moving to a farm and
growing everything. Becoming completely self-sustained.
I’ve had Kristin Kimball’s The Dirty Life on my night stand for
nearly two years. It never felt like quite the right time to read it and these
kinds of memoirs can get my idea wheels turning, so I have to be in a place
where I can properly flesh them out. Packing for our yearly trip to rural
Pennsylvania, I tossed it in my book bag, a striking contrast to the urban
fantasy and women’s magazines that mostly filled the pile. For the first week
of vacation I churned through witches, wizards, and grim reapers. And then, on
a hot Thursday afternoon, as my pile of books grew ever smaller, I took The Dirty Life out to the swing. Not 20
pages in I was hooked on her tale of city girl turned farmer and was eager to
use the book as evidence to David that this was the way forward for us.
Several engrossing hours later, I
had finished the book and knew several things for certain: 1) Kimball’s life
thus far is an amazing tale of hard work, perseverance, and relationship
building in the face of chaos and stress; 2) there is no damn way we could ever
in a million years do it. It comes down to a lack of knowledge, as Kimball’s
man-friend turned husband had made a life already of farming, but mostly to a
realization that I had about myself. I’m a hard worker, a problem solver, and
doggedly determined, but my Dad has not been calling me ‘Princess’ for almost
thirty years for nothing. I don’t like being dirty, or too hot, or too cold. I
need 7 ½ hours of sleep. I like my creature comforts and when I’m on edge,
especially traveling, nothing puts my soul to rights like a good browse through
a mall or grocery store.
This isn’t to say that Kimball
herself didn’t have quite an about-face. She went from being a travel-writing
New Yorker to a full partner in an enormous farming operation that didn’t do
things the easy way. And the parts of her story about the challenges the farm
brought to her relationship really resonated. She had to go to Hawaii for two
months, back to her old life, to know that the farm with her husband was where
she belonged. But the second she met her husband-to-be, she dove into the work.
I just don’t think I could do it, and what this book has made me realize is
that that’s ok.
What it’s given me is a reminder
of what’s really important to me, which is good food, from small operations run
by people who really love what they’re doing. Fresh, local ingredients that I
can turn into delicious things. I’m committed to the idea of joining a proper
CSA once we can afford it, hopefully next summer. And in the meantime, I’m
really going to put more effort into better sourcing the things that make up
our meals. Maybe the new dream can be living somewhere we can belong to Essex
Farm CSA?
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